I Don't Speak French
by Ricechex
Summary: Snippets of the relationship between Sherlock Holmes & Victor Trevor. My headcasting is Tom Hiddleston as Victor. There's Sherlock speaking French, wall sex, a happy Christmas, hints at drug-use & even brotherly-affection. Read at your own risk.


**_May, 1992_**

"German, Sherlock."

Sherlock was looking over information on languages, and more specifically, what languages were available for his GCSE requirements. He glanced at Mycroft. "Why?"

"We're always in need of someone who speaks German." Mycroft smiled at him. "And with your affluence for language, you'd be very useful."

Sherlock said nothing as he looked back at his paperwork and circled _French_. He looked over at Mycroft and smiled.

# # #

**_August, 1994_**

Sherlock was humming to himself as he walked along the street, heading back to the university with a fresh, large coffee in his hand. The air was crisp but clear and the leaves on the trees were just starting to turn from green. It was the kind of day that Sherlock rarely took time to appreciate, but this was one of those rare moments.

As he walked, he looked around, taking in the lovely city scenery. Small boutiques and shops lined the road he was on, the road that led straight to the university. There were plenty of other students milling about. Classes had only started a few weeks ago, but he was (of course) excelling in them all.

It felt like a perfect day.

Until another young man ran smack-into Sherlock, thus dumping his fresh, large, and very hot coffee all over the front of him.

"Fuck's sake!" Sherlock jumped back, picking at his ruined shirt as the hot liquid soaked through it. "Merde!"

"I... I'm so, oh god, I'm so sorry..."

"C'est vraiment de tu faute! Va te faire enculer!"

"I... I don't speak... French..."

Sherlock glared at the young man. He was as tall as Sherlock, and skinny as well. A small, neatly trimmed mustache and goatee framed his mouth, and was only a shade brighter than the wavy red hair that was slicked back on top of his head. His eyes were a vibrant blue behind large glasses, and he looked positively devastated at having run into Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed and softened his glare. "It's fine."

"No, no, please, let me... buy you another coffee?" The question tapered off at the end as Sherlock returned to glaring. "Or... a new shirt..." The young man's shoulders rounded in on himself, and he shoved his hands in his trouser pockets.

Sherlock glanced around, seeing a small crowd gathered. "Nothing better to do, then?" They began scattering as he began shouting. He let go of his shirt, which immediately clung to his skin. While he'd been holding it away from him it had cooled, and now felt a bit like ice slapping against most of his torso.

"Fils de pute!" He quickly set his bag down and shrugged out of his jacket, which had been spread wide open and thus spared by most of his coffee. He quickly stripped off the shirt and grabbed his jacket again, shimmying into it quickly and zipping up the front entirely. When he looked back, the young man was staring at him interestedly. "Well?"

The young man jumped and looked Sherlock in the eyes. "We-well, what?"

"Your name would be an nice start."

"Oh." The young man shuffled his feet. "Victor. Victor Trevor."

# # #

**_November, 1995_**

"Put this on."

Sherlock looked over at the very dark clothing that Victor was holding out to him. "Eh? Pour quoi?"

Victor grinned. He still didn't speak French but he knew confusion in any language. "We talked about this? Costume party?"

Sherlock huffed. "You know I don't want to."

"And you promised I wouldn't have to go alone." Victor shook the clothing at Sherlock, who sighed and grabbed them, stalking into the bathroom.

When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, he looked enraged. "What the HELL is this?"

Victor looked over at him, mouth dropping open and eyes widening. "Wow. Oh, uh... it's your costume."

"And what _am_ I?"

Victor smiled. "Eric Draven. You know, The Crow."

"The _what_?"

"Didn't you ever see that movie? Came out last year."

Sherlock snorted. "There are a great many things I don't care about in this world. Movies are one of them."

Victor shrugged. "You told me to pick a costume. This one suits you." He pulled a mask over his face and began straightening various parts of his own costume.

"Well what are you supposed to be then?" Sherlock frowned as he walked. _Leather pants? Really? They're practically skin-tight, Victor..._

Victor looked up at him. "You don't... really? I've only dragged you to that silly arcade several dozen times..."

"It may have escaped your notice that I always have a book handy." Sherlock tried straightening what he could only loosely describe as his shirt.

"But I thought... Oh. Well... never mind."

"Never mind what, you haven't told me anything yet!"

Victor rolled his eyes - the only things on his head that Sherlock could really still see. "I'm... Scorpion. You know, _GET OVER HERE_!"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Lovely."

"Shut-up and let me finish your costume."

"What else is there?"

Victor reached over and held up what looked like stage make-up. Sherlock swallowed, his eyes widening. "Um..."

"You need it if people are going to know who you are."

"But I don't _care_ if they know who I'm supposed to be." Sherlock frowned. Victor's head tilted to the side, his eyes narrowing. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But it's important to you. And we're friends. So this... is a favor?" Victor nodded enthusiastically.

Sherlock sighed.

# # #

**_November, 1995_**

The party had been, in Sherlock's opinion, hell. Victor had seemed to enjoy it up until the fight broke out, and then it had been up to Sherlock to figure out how to haul him back from the fray. For his troubles he now had a busted lip and what he was fairly certain was going to be a remarkable black eye tomorrow. Victor had a split running along his right cheek and bruises forming along his neck from where someone had tried to choke him.

The two were just arriving back at their dorm when Victor spoke for the first time since they'd left the party. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"What for?"

"For..." Victor gestured at Sherlock's face. "_That_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes - the left one hurt when he did but his vision was fine and nothing felt wrong aside from the tenderness. "Was she worth it?" He glanced back at Victor as he opened the door to their room.

Victor shuffled in behind him, shaking his head. "Not really. Told me she didn't really care what kind of music I liked, just wanted to know if I had a car."

Sherlock snorted. "American, no doubt."

Victor grinned. "With that accent? Yes."

Sherlock stripped off his now truly ruined costume shirt, tossing it into a corner and running his hands through his hair. He looked over and saw Victor staring at him again. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing." Victor turned away. "You... you really did look the part tonight."

Sherlock stared at his best friend's back. "Thank you." His voice had gone softer than he'd intended, and he saw Victor shift slightly - cringing? "Are you alright?" Sherlock walked over, laying a hand against Victor's shoulder.

Before Sherlock really understood what was happening, he was being pushed against a wall, Victor's mouth was on his, Victor's hands clutching his face and pulling him closer, closer.

Sherlock closed his eyes, arms instinctively going around Victor's waist, pressing tighter against him.

"Oh god, I'm sorry..." Victor pulls away and is stammering out apologies. Sherlock stares at him, feeling off-balance.

"Ne t'arréte pas." Sherlock pulled Victor back to him, kissing him and touching him, hands running through his hair, over his neck, down his chest. "S'il te plaît, ne t'arréte pas, Victor."

Victor took this as encouragement, coming back in to kiss Sherlock before spinning him around, still kissing him and holding him, then maneuvering them to the closest bed.

Sherlock lands on his back, a sudden rush of cool air until Victor has climbed on top of him, shirtless now as well, and then Victor is kissing him again and saying such sweet things and Sherlock can't think of anything at all to say at first, because this whole thing feels crazy-right and he's not sure what to do about it.

"Touche-moi." Sherlock doesn't wait, he grabs Victor's hand and puts it on his hip, moving his own into a mirrored position on Victor' body. "Je te veux."

Victor's hands were moving to the button on Sherlock's trousers, and Sherlock felt the pressure of the waistband loosen as the button and then zipper were undone.

"God, Sherlock." Victor pulled back, staring at Sherlock lying on his bed, pants undone and an obvious bulge growing. "Are you.. I mean... have you ever done... because..." Victor's shaking his head. "I haven't. And I..."

"I want to." Sherlock looked up into Victor's eyes, pleading with him. "I haven't before. But I want to. With you." Victor's breath is coming faster and faster as Sherlock says these things, and he's biting his lip in a way that Sherlock is finding incredibly sexy. "S'il te plaît."

Victor leans back in for another kiss. "Sherlock. I still don't speak French."

# # #

**_January, 2001_**

Sherlock woke up in a tangle of limbs. Only half of them were his.

He looked to his left and smiled slightly. Victor was still sleeping soundly, face nearly buried in the mattress. A thin line of drool was hanging from his bottom lip, connecting to the sheet. Sherlock knew that, objectively, that was considered undesirable. But on Victor, nothing looked bad.

Sherlock extricated himself and sat up, stretching. He grabbed his housecoat and slipped it on as he walked out of their bedroom and into the small living room. It wasn't much of a flat, but Victor had just gotten a promotion, and he'd finally convinced New Scotland Yard to take him on as a consultant. Things were looking up. They might just be able to afford something nicer soon.

He started the coffee, and was just about to start pulling out some bread and eggs for breakfast when he felt two arms slide around his waist, felt a body pressed against his backside. He leaned back, a soft, happy sigh escaping him.

"Now you know you can't make that noise." Victor's voice was teasing. "Because I will have you right here, right now."

"Coffee'd get cold, though."

"We have a microwave."

Sherlock twisted and was met with slightly dry lips against his, Victor's hands coming up to cup his face the way they usually did. The sensation of it was more than Sherlock could bear sometimes, and he moaned slightly into the kiss. Victor intensified the kiss, pushing Sherlock back against the refrigerator door. Sherlock's grabbing Victor's pajama pants and shoving them down over his hips before reaching for his own and working them down.

"Dis moi." He's almost gasping, breath coming faster and faster as Victor grinds against him.

"Oh god, Sherlock." Victor's hand is working him now, working both of them against each other, and Sherlock is moaning and grunting, and-

_Knock-knock_.

"Vas... vas t'en!" Sherlock's voice is breaking over almost every word now as he shouts at the door and then keeps mumbling rapidly in French right next to Victor's ear. He begins spasming and whimpering as the orgasm washes over him and he slams his head back into the fridge.

Victor's kissing his neck and chuckling lightly. "Fifty quid says it's your brother."

"That's a sucker's bet.. and you know it."

Victor pulls back and smiles at Sherlock before moving to grab the paper towels. He hands several to Sherlock as he starts cleaning himself off. "I'll try to keep him out. Go get changed."

"You're too good to me."

Victor's grin gets even brighter. "Don't forget it, either."

Sherlock kicked his pajama pants off entirely and was just closing the door to their bedroom when he heard Victor's voice floating down the hall. "Ah, Mycroft. How I wish it was a pleasure..."

# # #

**_January, 2001_**

Sherlock emerges from the bedroom and walks into the living room to see Mycroft standing in the middle of the floor, looking around distastefully. Sherlock smiles.

"Hello, brother _dear_."

"He's not here right now."

"Lucky _him_."

Mycroft frowns. "Indeed." He looks at one of the chairs and finally deems it worthy of his presence, swooping over to sit on it stiffly. "This is..." Sherlock looks down to hide his smile as Mycroft's sentence goes unfinished.

"What do you want?"

"I've come to inquire after you. And your... well..."

"His name is Victor."

"Yes, of course it is."

"We're fine."

"Are you?" Mycroft smiles. Sherlock sees just how unfriendly it is - it's exactly like his own smile right now.

"Quite. Now if that's all?"

"Not entirely." Mycroft stands and walks over to Sherlock, staring him down. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?" Sherlock frowns.

"The drugs, Sherlock. Your... stash."

Sherlock snorts. "You should not ever use that word again."

Mycroft gives him an even stare. "This cannot continue, Sherlock."

"I'm fine." Sherlock's teeth are clenched tightly, and Mycroft smiles. He knows he's hit the nerve.

"And just how long _have_ you been clean now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock glared at him but said nothing. Mycroft could probably see it all over the place. Sherlock would never admit it, but he was terribly envious of Mycroft's deductive abilities. He would, however, complain greatly and at length about Mycroft's lack of drive to use those abilities for anything useful.

"Long enough."

"And just how hard is it for you to abstain?"

Sherlock huffed. "Go away, Mycroft."

Mycroft rubbed his hands over his umbrella. "You know Mummy and Father don't approve."

Sherlock sneered. "Of my recreational drug use? Or the fact that I'm fucking another man?"

Mycroft quirked his eyebrow. "Both."

"But not in that order. Interesting, isn't it?"

Mycroft looked at him inquiringly. "How so?"

"Well the fact that I'm habitually using a dangerous drug doesn't bother them as much as the idea of having to figure out how to introduce Victor at family gatherings."

"He deserves better, Sherlock."

Sherlock stepped back, reeling at the words. "Excuse me?"

Mycroft glanced towards the stairs. "Ah, that'll be him coming back then." Mycroft turned and smiled. "I'll be seeing you soon. Mummy said to remind you about Sunday dinner."

"Victor and I will be unavoidably detained, I'm afraid."

Mycroft nodded, pausing at the door as Victor walked back in, tossing a pack of cigarettes at Sherlock. "Oh really, Sherlock." Mycroft wrinkled his nose again, looking at the cellophane wrapped box. "Still?"

Victor looked over at Sherlock and grinned mischievously. "Has he been this bad the whole time?"

Sherlock returned the smile. "Worse, even."

"Shit." Victor reached into his pocket and grabbed a second pack, tossing it to Sherlock as well. "You need these, then."

Mycroft huffed and walked out. The door closed behind him and Sherlock nearly fell over laughing. Victor sank onto the sofa, giggling as well.

"Hey, give those back." He held out his hand, waiting. Sherlock looked at him, then back the two packs of cigarettes in his hands. He shoved them both into his pockets and gave Victor a challenging look.

"What if I keep them?"

Victor's eyebrows raised and he gave a sly smile. "Then I'll just have to find a way to convince you to play nicely."

Sherlock smiled, walking casually down the hallway and back to their bedroom. Victor laughed, then followed.

# # #

**_April, 2003_**

"Sherlock, what the - are you _high_? _Again_?"

Sherlock looked up at Victor, who was looming over him. He looked around and realized he was lying on the sofa.

"Yes."

Victor ran a hand over his face. He sighed, long and frustrated and _exhausted_. Sherlock licked his lips.

"I want you."

Victor shook his head. "Absolutely not, Sherlock."

"I assure you I-"

"Shut-up." Victor's voice was low, threatening. Sherlock closed his mouth and watched Victor as he began pacing. "Why? Just... just give me one good reason, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. "I'm afraid that giving you an answer directly violates your original rule of _shutting-up_."

Victor glared, a strangled sound coming from his throat as he turned and punched the wall. He punched it again, and again, a full scream coming from him now. Sherlock watched as red smears and streaks appeared on the off-white wall. Victor collapsed in front of it, his hands coming up to his face. Sherlock could hear him - he was sobbing, _literally_ sobbing. Sherlock shoved himself into a sitting position, pushed up onto his feet. He walked carefully over to Victor, kneeling behind him. He reached out, one hand lightly touching Victor's shoulder. Victor turned quickly, pulling Sherlock against him and crushing their mouths together. It hurt, this kiss, but Sherlock would not say anything because he was high and Victor was willingly touching him.

"Damn you, Sherlock." Victor was whispering against Sherlock's lips, his hands running through Sherlock's hair and over Sherlock's neck and shoulders and Sherlock instinctively reached for him, reached for Victor's shirt. Victor's hands caught him before he could manage.

"I want you." Sherlock was repeating himself, he knew that, but he couldn't think of anything else to say now. "I want you, Victor."

"You're high."

"It's never affected my desire for you before."

"_You're high_, Sherlock. Even if you swore to me that you're completely in control, I..." Victor shook his head. "I'd never be able to trust it."

Sherlock watches Victor pulling away, slowly, unwillingly. He stays on the floor as Victor stands up, looking at his knuckles. He goes to the kitchen. Sherlock can hear the sink running, and when Victor returns he has a damp cloth. He wipes the wall, then presses the cloth against his still bleeding knuckles.

He does not look at Sherlock as he does any of this.

He walks away again, and a minute later Sherlock hears the shower start. He swallows and stands up, going into the bedroom. He looks around, taking everything in as a small tear rolls down his cheek. He's screwing this up - he knows that. But he can't seem to stop.

When Victor comes into their room, a towel wrapped around his hips and his hair dripping onto his shoulders, Sherlock's mouth goes dry. "Je suis désolé." The words are broken but he means them, and he hops Victor hears that.

Sherlock sits on his side of the bed, grabbing his pillow and hugging it tightly, burying his face against it. A second later the bed dips. Victor's hands pull him close, and he turns in Victor's arms, his own arms going around Victor's shoulders and neck, pulling him closer and closer.

"This can't happen again, Sherlock." Victor's voice is firm but gentle. Sherlock nods against his shoulder.

"Don't leave me." Sherlock doesn't say it - he doesn't say those three words he's never been able to bring himself to utter, not in almost nine years. But he knows Victor understands exactly what he's saying.

He falls asleep sitting up in Victor's arms. It's the best rest he's had in months.

# # #

**_June, 2004_**

"Your hair's getting long."

Victor rolled his head to the side, his nose nearly touching Sherlock's as they lay in bed.

"I know. I need to get it cut."

"No." Sherlock reached up, his hand running through Victor's sleep-messed curls. "It suits you."

Victor smiled, pushing forward to press his lips against Sherlock's. His hand came up to rest against Sherlock's neck, thumb stroking back and forth along Sherlock's cheek.

"It's Sunday." Sherlock was mumbling against Victor's lips.

"And?"

Sherlock chuckled as he continued kissing Victor. "We have nowhere to be." He turned Victor's head slightly, kissing along his cheek, down to his jaw. "And nothing to do."

Victor bit his lower lip, moaning slightly as Sherlock's hand slid down his chest, down his side, to grasp his hip. "We'll just have to find some way to pass the time, then."

"Mmm." Sherlock pushed him onto his back, rolling on top of him with a smile. He hovered over Victor, foreheads touching. "I think we still have the Financial Times. I'm sure you could while away several hours there."

Victor let his hands run over Sherlock's torso. "Undoubtedly. And I may have something for you, waiting for a special occasion."

"Nothing more special." Sherlock leaned in, kissing him. "Than a Sunday at home."

"What about one year sober?"

Sherlock pressed the entire length of his body against Victor, kissing him desperately. Victor's hands were everywhere - his back, his hips, his hair and his arse and his face.

Sherlock reached over to the nightstand by Victor's side of the bed, opening the drawer and pulling out a small bottle of lube and several condoms. He left them near the edge of the bed, his hand coming back to grope at Victor.

"Oh god, Sherlock." Victor's voice was low, his breathing heavy, and it was the most glorious aphrodisiac Sherlock had ever known. He looked up and Sherlock nodded, reaching back for the lube. He slicked his fingers as Victor reached down, taking his cock in his hand. Sherlock's breath caught as a shiver rippled down his spine.

"_Fuck_, Victor." Sherlock slipped his hand down, sliding his fingers over his own cock before moving them to Victor, working one finger into him slowly.

Victor moaned loudly. "Soooo..." He clenched slightly as Sherlock worked a second finger into him. "Sunday Times?"

Sherlock smiled. "I'm sure it's... at our door now." He slipped a third finger into Victor, his left hand going to his cock.

"Mmmm..." Victor grinned as his body reacted to Sherlock's fingers working in him. "Bet I cou...coul...oh, _Christ_..."

"You could what?" Sherlock's hands were moving faster and faster. He was so hard it hurt.

"_Fuck me_."

Sherlock grabbed a condom and tore the package open, slipping it on. Victor lifted his hips and Sherlock pressed into him, slowly. "_Mon dieu_, Victor..."

"I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock started moving, his eyes fluttering closed. "Je t'aime, j'ai besoin de toi, tu es beau, tu es élégant, je t'adore."

"One of these days..." Victor wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him closer. "I'll learn fucking French."

"Tu es l'amour de ma vie."

Victor chuckled and turned his head, kissed Sherlock deeply. Sherlock's movements became more stuttered, frantic.

"Sherlock, yes, Sherlock, Sherlock, oh god, yes." Victor was whispering his name and urging him on and Sherlock buried his face in Victor's neck, groaning and almost screaming into him as the orgasm washed over him like a tidal wave.

"Victor." Sherlock pushed up on shaky arms. Victor was flushed all over, smiling and looking at Sherlock like he was the most amazing person that had ever lived.

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

Sherlock felt his breath catch. He licked his lips and swallowed. "Veux-tu m'épouser?"

Victor cocked his head, giggling slightly. "I have no idea what that meant. But I'm fairly certain I'd agree to anything with you." Sherlock shifted back to his side of the bed, and Victor rolled to face him. "So what am I agreeing to, anyway?"

Sherlock scooted closer, pressed against Victor and looked into his eyes. "Marrying me."

Victor's eyebrows shot up. "Oh. Right."

Sherlock sucked his lower lip between his teeth. "I can... I can get you a-"

Victor cut him off with a kiss. When he pulled back, he was smiling brightly. "So. When should we do this?"

# # #

**_June, 2004_**

Two strangers that Sherlock and Victor planned never to see again served as their witnesses. Three days after Sherlock proposed in French, he and Victor signed paperwork stating that they were as close to married as it was possible for them to be.

It was no surprise that when they walked out of the magistrate's office, a sleek black car was waiting with an open door. Sherlock twined his fingers with Victor's and pulled him along into the car.

"Am I to understand." Mycroft was looking down at his hands. "That you have just done something extremely rash?"

Sherlock looked at his brother before looking at the man who was, as far he was concerned, his husband. He smiled at Victor, then burst out laughing. Victor started laughing too, and before long they were gasping as they leaned against each other and Mycroft glared at them.

"There's absolutely nothing funny about this, Sherlock."

"No." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "No, I've been with Victor for nearly nine years, obviously we should have waited longer to get married."

Mycroft closed his eyes. Outside, London flashed by and Victor held Sherlock's hand and Sherlock could not have stopped smiling if he'd wanted to.

"But you're not married, Sherlock." Mycroft smiled at him. "Not really."

Sherlock snorted. "We're as good as."

"Sherlock-"

"No, Mycroft." He looked over at Victor, who smiled at him. "Just take me and my _husband _home."

Moments later, the car pulled up in front of the building their flat was in. Victor opened the door.

"I wonder if I might have a quick word with my brother." Mycroft looked at Victor. Victor looked at Sherlock, who frowned and shrugged and finally nodded.

"I'll go get tea ready." Victor smiled and leaned in to give Sherlock a quick kiss, but Sherlock had other ideas. Mycroft cleared his throat several moments later, and Victor pulled back, grinning.

"If I'm not up in five minutes, call Lestrade." Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, closing the door. "What?"

"They're not going to be happy."

"They never are."

"This was selfish, Sherlock."

"I _am _selfish. And I had a wonderful example all my life." Sherlock smirked at Mycroft, who ignored his jibe.

"They would have at least liked to have been informed that you were going to take this step."

"Oh please." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft glared. "They would have wanted to know so they could have stopped it. Now there's nothing they can do."

"You know that half the reason they don't approve, Sherlock, is because you've never given them a chance to get to know him."

"And the other half is because _he's_ a _him_." Mycroft looked away. "Mummy and Father want grandchildren. Neither of us is going to make that happen. Your excuse is Queen and country, no time for romantic notions." Sherlock looked back out the window, up to the floor that housed his flat. "They would rather see me married to someone I barely know who _could _give them grandchildren than be happy in a marriage I chose with someone who _can't_."

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

"No, it isn't." Sherlock looked back at Mycroft as he opened the door. "But maybe it's not the disadvantage you lead me to believe."

# # #

**_September, 2004_**

"Please eat something."

Sherlock looked up at Victor, who was sitting across the table from him. They were in a small restaurant called _Angelo's_.

"Working."

"I still don't see why you won't eat."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Digestion slows me down."

"But having me along doesn't?"

Sherlock grinned. "I like company when I go out."

Victor nearly choked on his water. "Someone noticed when you were talking to yourself, then?"

Sherlock frowned. "One of the sergeants, Lestrade. I really prefer Gregson, he shuts up without my asking now."

"You actually _ask _them to shut-up? Wonder what that must be like for you." Victor winked and Sherlock smirked.

"It's hell. But the cases are interesting. Sometimes."

Victor took another bite of his pasta before spearing a piece of chicken covered in sauce and holding it in front of Sherlock. "Eat."

Sherlock glared at him. "No."

"Eat it, or you sleep on the couch."

"You wouldn't last an hour without me next to you."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Who else is going to do it, then?"

Victor rolled his eyes and shoved the bite of chicken closer to Sherlock. "Just... one bite."

Sherlock sighed but ate the chicken, chewing slowly as he looked outside. "If I don't solve this case tonight, it's all your fault."

Victor smiled.

Several moment passed quietly, and then Sherlock sat forward, staring outside.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"Call Lestrade. I see the man they're after." Sherlock was up and out of his seat before Victor could say anything.

He watched a man going into the small hotel not far from the restaurant, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Sherlock!"

He turned and glared at Victor who was striding over to him.

"Call. Lestrade." Sherlock turned away and dashed across the street. Victor watched him, frustrated, then jogged over to catch up.

"I don't have his number, you daft git."

"Merde." Sherlock grabbed his phone and handed it over. "He's in there somewhere. Now _go_."

He stalked into the hotel, leaving Victor outside, looking helpless as he scrolled through the saved contacts.

# # #

**_September, 2004_**

Half an hour later, Lestrade was shouting at him about being ridiculous and stupid. Victor was standing a short ways off, arms crossed and looking like he couldn't wait to give Sherlock his own brand of shouting. Sherlock nodded at appropriate moments with Lestrade, his gaze flicking constantly to Victor, who kept scowling.

"You're damn lucky he called me, Sherlock!" Sherlock looked back at Lestrade, who was a lovely shade of red now. "I don't know what you think you were doing! You're not a police officer! You're a god damn amateur!"

"Who caught you a serial killer."

"That's not the point!"

Sherlock sighed. "You're right, of course. I _should_ have called and stayed out of the way."

"Fucking right you should have!"

"And let him escape, so that he could find another victim."

"You have no faith in me and my team."

"Give me a reason to."

Lestrade turned away and looked at Victor. "You. Take him home before I lock him up." Lestrade looked back at Sherlock. "Tomorrow morning. In my office."

Sherlock smirked as Lestrade stormed off and Victor walked up. Sherlock's smirk got wider.

"I could murder you."

"I'm fine, Victor."

Sherlock started walking, and Victor sighed. "You have stitches."

The two rounded a corner and Sherlock reached out, grabbing Victor's hand. "Admit it. You found it exciting."

Victor snorted. "I find the idea of my husband coming home in one piece exciting."

Sherlock grinned. "Five stitches is hardly me in pieces."

Victor stopped, pulling Sherlock's arm. Sherlock turned to look at him, his smile fading. Victor looked scared, nearly on the verge of tears. "Sherlock..." Victor closed his eyes. "If you hadn't moved when you did, you'd be in a hospital bleeding out."

Sherlock dropped Victor's hand and stepped closer to him. "Victor, I'm fine."

Victor opened his eyes. "This time. What about next time?"

Sherlock watched him for a moment before grabbing his hand again and pulling him along quickly.

"What are - where are we going?" Victor stumbled a bit.

"Home. Taxi!"

The ride was quiet, Sherlock held Victor's hand, and when they got home Victor insisted on checking Sherlock for any other injuries.

"Why? You're a financial consultant, not a doctor." Sherlock kicked off his shoes.

"Because it will make me feel better."

"You just want to get me out of my clothes."

Victor ducked his head as he smiled. "Thought never occurred."

Sherlock carefully took his jacket and shirt off, moving gingerly. The slice across his right shoulder was deep, but not life threatening. The black thread holding the wound closed was harsh looking against the red and white of his skin. Victor looked at it sadly.

"Sherlock."

"I'm fine, Victor." Sherlock took his trousers and socks off, standing in just his pants. Victor was standing near his side of the bed and had taken his own shirt off, looking Sherlock over. "I'm telling you. A few bumps and scrapes. I'm _fine_."

"Stop _saying_ that!" Sherlock looked at Victor in surprise. Victor was glaring at him. "You could have been _killed_, Sherlock. Do you have any idea what-" Victor stopped, stepping back, a hand going to his forehead. Sherlock took two steps, closing the distance between them.

Victor tilted his head up, his hand immediately finding Sherlock's hair as Victor kissed him. Sherlock let his right arm snake around Victor's waist while his left hand rested against the back of Victor's neck.

Victor's hands came down and pulled at Sherlock's pants, slipping them over his hips and shoving them roughly down his thighs. Sherlock began working on Victor's trousers, loosening them enough that he could slip both trousers and pants down and off of Victor.

Sherlock kissed him again, harder and deeper and insistent, pushing him until Victor's back was against the wall. Victor's hands were warm and perfect as they danced over Sherlock's skin.

"You scare me so fucking much." Victor nipped at Sherlock's lips and Sherlock shivered, then responded by grinding his erection against Victor's. Victor groaned.

"Should I get-"

"Yes."

Sherlock leaned into another kiss before pulling away and turning to the table on Victor's side of the bed, grabbing the lube and condoms. He looked up as Victor walked over to him.

Sherlock found himself pinned to the wall now, Victor kissing his neck and collarbone and his eyes rolling back in his head as Victor's hand gripped his cock, working in soft, teasing strokes.

"Just _fuck_ me already, Victor."

Victor bit down on Sherlock's neck, lightly, just enough that it brought a gasp from Sherlock. But then Sherlock felt himself being turned around, felt cold and wet and two of Victor's fingers finding his arsehole, and he pushed back into them, moaning.

"_Christ_, Sherlock." The sound of a condom wrapper tearing, Victor's fingers left him for a moment, then returned, three of them now and Sherlock whimpered and continued moving with Victor's fingers.

When Victor's fingers fell away again, Sherlock growled. Victor chuckled, his hands on Sherlock's hips as he steadied himself, pushing into Sherlock slowly, slowly, teasing and taunting and Sherlock tried to push back but Victor's hands held him steady.

Victor started a gentle, steady rhythm, and Sherlock pushed back into him, matching him, groaning and grunting.

"Sherlock, god, Sherlock, I love you." Victor's hands gripped Sherlock's hips tightly as he moved.

"Baise-moi. Baise-moi. Plus fort!"

Victor began slamming into Sherlock, who pushed back even harder, until Victor gripped his hips painfully hard and screamed into Sherlock's back, his face buried between Sherlock's shoulder blades.

Sherlock leaned back, panting hard. He felt Victor's right hand come around to his front, stroking him fast and hard. It didn't take long for Sherlock to climax, the feel of Victor still inside him and Victor's lips on his shoulder and neck. When Victor stepped away from him, Sherlock shivered, turning to look at him. Victor smiled, grabbing a towel off the floor and wiping himself off before handing it to Sherlock.

Once they were cleaned off, Sherlock sprawled out on the bed, Victor beside him. He yawned, closing his eyes.

Victor trailed his fingers along Sherlock's chest. "Just don't go getting yourself killed. Alright?"

Sherlock turned his head and looked at Victor. "I'll do my best."

Victor leaned in and kissed him. "You'd better."

# # #

**_Christmas, 2004_**

Sherlock rolled over to see Victor's side of the bed empty. He frowned, sitting up and looking around. Victor's dressing gown was missing, so he was unlikely to be out of the flat, and it was still rather dark, so it was unlikely most shops would be open even if it _hadn't_ been Christmas. Sherlock stood up and grabbed his own robe, padding lazily out of the room.

Victor was wearing a Father Christmas hat and easing a package out of a closet in the living room. Sherlock grinned and watched silently until Victor had nearly gotten it out entirely. It was a very large, dark green box, and Sherlock could not possibly imagine what it was. He was also impressed that it had been hidden so well.

"Aren't we a little old for Father Christmas?"

Victor jumped a foot in the air, the box falling to the floor with a soft clatter. He looked up at Sherlock, breathing hard and heavy.

"You unmentionable bastard." Victor laughed as he stooped to pick up the box. "Scared the hell out of me."

"What is it?" Sherlock gestured at the box. Victor looked innocent.

"What, this? I dunno. Who said it's even for you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked forward. Victor backed up, trying to hide the box behind himself.

"Thought we weren't doing surprise gifts this year." Sherlock peered around Victor, who moved to block his view.

"No, you said I would be unable to surprise you." Victor leaned up to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "I took it as a challenge. Surprised?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly."

"Then you already know what it is."

"Of course."

Victor smiled. "Go on then. What is it?"

Sherlock frowned. "It's hardly going to be any fun pretending to be surprised if I tell you, now is it?"

Victor laughed. "You don't know."

Sherlock's frown deepened. "Of course I know."

"Then you'd have told me what it is." Victor stepped back. "You really don't know what it is."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine, you're right, I had no idea and I don't know." He looked back at the box. "So can I have it, then?"

Victor nodded at the couch. "Have a sit."

Sherlock moved quickly, and Victor walked over, holding the package out to him. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

Sherlock held the box. It was weighty, and the wrapping paper was beautiful. Up close he could see swirls of various shades of green, hinting at various symbols of the season. He lifted one hand and carefully began to open the gift.

Victor sat down next to him, lower lip sucked between his teeth, eyes glowing in the soft lights they'd hung around the flat.

Sherlock finally lifted the top of the box. Inside was a coat. Sherlock ran a hand over it. Wool, lined with silk. _Belstaff_.

"You..." Sherlock took a deep breath and looked at Victor. "How did... why?"

Victor smiled. "You may be the consulting detective, but I see more about you than you'd believe. I saw you admiring it."

Sherlock looked back at the coat. He had been admiring it. He'd been admiring it for all of three seconds as they'd walked by.

"It's..."

"Oh god, you don't-"

"It's perfect." Sherlock looked back at Victor. He reached out and grabbed Victor's hand. "_You're_ perfect. Tu es... parfait." Sherlock gave Victor's hand a squeeze before he set the coat aside and hurried out of the room.

"Sherlock?"

"Just a minute!" Sherlock opened the bottom drawer in his dresser, pulling on the bottom of it and revealing a secret compartment. He smiled as he pulled out a small envelope. He raced back into the living room and held it out to Victor.

Victor chuckled as he took the envelope. He waited for Sherlock to sit back down before opening it.

"You got me..." Victor's breath caught. "Season... season tickets, oh..."

"I believe you wanted to see _Don Giovanni_ last year. I don't know if it will be back this season, but we-"

Victor pushed forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. "Thank-you."

Sherlock put his arms around Victor. "De rien."

# # #

**_November, 2005_**

Victor is quiet as he drives. Sherlock sits next to him, staring out the window. The silence is deafening until Victor finally breaks it.

"I'll visit. Every Sunday."

"I know."

"We need this. Not you. Not me. _Us_."

"I _know_." The words are harsher than he'd wanted them to be, but Sherlock can't help it. If there's anything he hates, it's repetition. And Victor's been repeating the same thing for the past week.

"I'm..." Victor sighs. "I'm sorry. I know, you hate that, it's just..." He sniffs, and Sherlock turns in his seat to look at him. There are tears running down Victor's cheeks. Sherlock reaches out and wipes one cheek carefully with his thumb. Victor smiles over at him briefly.

"I should have gotten help sooner." Sherlock's voice is low. "I did this. I know that."

"Then you also know that while yes, you started using, it wasn't entirely your fault."

"I was clean for more than a year. I started using again because I was bored." Sherlock takes a deep breath, like the marriage counselor had suggested. "I did something that hurt you. Did it _knowing_ it would hurt you. That is _entirely_ my fault."

"You hated that therapist."

"Yes."

Large, loud raindrops splatter suddenly against the windscreen, and Victor flicked on the wipers. "Lovely. Just the kind of weather I wanted for this drive."

Sherlock gave a small laugh, and Victor glanced over at him, smiling.

"I'm going to miss you so much, Sherlock."

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed out. "I feel like I've missed you for the last five months."

Victor focused on the road again, but reached out his left hand. Sherlock didn't hesitate in taking it, pulling it close to his chest, then up to his lips and kissing each knuckle, lingering over the Victor's ring.

"Promise me you'll work on getting better." Victor's voice broke slightly, and he kept his gaze on the road. "Promise me."

"I promise."

"On everything you hold dear?"

Sherlock rubbed his cheek against the back of Victor's hand. "I swear on our marriage."

Victor nodded, slowing down as they came to a red light. "And you'll call me?"

"As often as they let me."

"Good." The light went green again. "It's going to be-"

"Victor, LOOK OUT!"

Metal crunched. Glass shattered. Sherlock had a vague sensation of going topsy-turvy like he was on an amusement park ride. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he was staring at a world tilted on its side. It was raining inside the car. Parts of him felt warm, wetter than they should be. He felt around, bringing hands slicked with blood up to his eye level. Someone was shouting at him, looming over him at a strange angle. He couldn't understand a single word they said. He looked to his right.

Victor was bleeding. Badly. Sherlock took a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, wincing - bruised ribs, then. Possibly a crack or two. Not the first time he'd had them, and it was better than them being broken and puncturing important organs.

"Victor?" His voice was rough, too low. His throat hurt, why did his throat hurt? He swallowed and tried again. "Victor? Please. Please say something."Sirens were approaching. Good.

"Sher... Sherlock." Victor's breathing was labored, wet-sounding even. Not good. Sherlock reached and unlatched his seatbelt carefully, shifting painfully so he didn't fall on Victor.

"Where does it hurt?"

"Sherlock, I love you."

"Shut-up, you idiot, and just tell me!"

The sirens were almost there, now. "I think... Sherlock..."

"No, the paramedics are here now, Victor, you're going to be fine. Just tell me-"

"French."

"What?" Sherlock blinked. He was crying - when had that happened? "What about French?"

"Say something." Victor looked over at him, pupils dilating, too wide, not good. "I just want... to hear something."

"Je veux être avec toi pour toujours. J'ai besoin de toi." Sherlock was sobbing now as he said it, and he couldn't stop. He didn't understand. Victor would be fine, wouldn't he? He had to be.

Victor smiled, and closed his eyes. "I still... don't..." His body slumped just as someone came to the car, calling out to and saying they would be out of the car soon. Sherlock pressed his fingers to the pulse point in Victor's neck.

Nothing moved.

Sherlock frantically grabbed Victor's wrist, pressing harder than necessary. There was nothing there.

Sherlock cursed very, very loudly, shouting and screaming as the paramedics pulled him out of the car, pulled Victor - limp and lifeless - out of the car. Sherlock clawed at them, kicked and punched and fought his way out of their grasp. He ran back to Victor, touching and grasping, and begging. Pleading to a god he didn't believe in.

He did not let go until a black car pulled up, and his brother stepped out of it. Mycroft hurried to Sherlock's side, kneeling in the rain and the dirt and for once, not caring about his suit at all.

"Sherlock-"

"No!" Sherlock pulled Victor closer, curling around him. Mycroft's hand was firm but kind on his shoulder.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock began uncurling very, very slowly, looking over his shoulder at his older brother.

Mycroft had been crying. His face, his hair, his clothes, were all soaked from the rain. But the redness and slight puffing under the skin around his eyes gave it all away. Sherlock looked back at Victor, and laid one gentle kiss against his forehead, settling him gently on the ground.

Then he turned and flung himself into Mycroft's open arms, screaming against Mycroft's chest.

# # #

**_December, 2005_**

"It was a beautiful ceremony."

Sherlock stared into empty space. Mycroft's words echoed inside him. He felt nothing. He was hollow.

"He loved you very much."

Sherlock stares at the small box on the table. It's heavy, but not heavy enough. Not nearly heavy enough. Sherlock cannot process this, cannot equate _the box_ with Victor, his Victor.

"Come and stay with me, Sherlock."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I can't."

"You can."

"No."

"Why?"

Sherlock closes his eyes. "Because I need to be in our flat, with our things, and see our life together."

Mycroft is quiet a moment more. He looks around. They were alone, finally. Well wishers had come and gone, and now he and Sherlock were the only two left in the funeral parlor.

"Then may I come and stay with you?"

Sherlock panned his head slowly towards Mycroft. It was the first time he'd looked away from _the box _the entire time they'd been there. "Why?"

Mycroft's smile was tired, and pained. "Because you are my brother. And despite everything you may believe, I love you better than you will ever comprehend."

"You don't trust me."

"I never said-"

"You didn't have to." Sherlock swallowed. "And you're probably right."

Mycroft rubbed at his brow. "I would much prefer to settle this matter as adults, Sherlock, but I will force my hand if that is what's needed."

Sherlock was quiet as he looked back to _the box_. He stared at it, Mycroft sitting next to him, for nearly three more minutes.

He said nothing until Mycroft moved to stand up. Sherlock's hand shot out, gripping his brother's arm. "Please." His voice shook and several tears ran down his cheeks. "Stay with me." He looked up at Mycroft, who nodded and sat back down. A hesitant arm went around Sherlock's backside. Sherlock leaned over, placing his head on Mycroft's shoulder.

# # #

**_March, 2010_**

"It's a skull."

"Friend of mine." Sherlock looked back at it. "Well, I say _friend_..." He walked away, resolutely not looking back at it. The skull could not give him anything he needed. All it was was a reminder.

John seemed nice so far, if a bit unsure of Sherlock. Sherlock was used to that, though. Victor would have called it Sherlock's natural charm. Sherlock tries not to think about Victor as he takes his scarf off.

The day is filled with a crime scene, dinner that he does not eat, curing his new flatmate's limp, a drugs bust (thankfully, he and the flat really were entirely clean), and then a cab ride that ended with John shooting a cabbie to save his life.

And Chinese.

After they'd gotten home, still laughing and talking about what had happened, John had yawned and excused himself to bed. Sherlock had nodded, watching him go up the stairs. When he heard John's door close, he stepped over to the skull.

He picked it up, and pulled a small box out from the inside of it. He opened the box up. Inside were his and Victor's rings, and a small picture taken of them just before they'd left the magistrate, smiling and happy. Sherlock closed his eyes as he closed the box, bring both it and the skull over to his chair.

"I miss you." His voice was soft, and sad, and longing. "I miss everything about you, Victor." He cradles the skull to his chest. "I don't know... I don't know what I'm doing without you." He looked over to the empty stairs. "I think you'd like John, though. He... understands me. Not like you did. But better than anyone else ever has."

Sherlock leans forward, curling himself over the skull protectively. "I'm so sorry." He feels one tear slide down his cheek. "Ten years with you was nowhere near long enough."

He sat there a moment longer before using one hand to swipe at his eyes. He stood up and carefully replaced the skull but kept its box, sliding his fingers over the smooth dome of aging bone. "Je t'aime." He smiled. "It means I love you."

Then he took one long, deep breath, and strode into his bedroom.

Sentiment. It would be the death of him yet.


End file.
